


War

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 14:45:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17061743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: They're at war. Completely optional supplemental material to Mr-Finch's "Parts You Have No Right To".





	War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mr-finch (soubriquet)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet/gifts).



> I love a complicated relationship with the self, and if anyone is gonna have a complicated relationship with his own daemon, it'd be Frank Castle.

The saying was that the daemon fit the man.

This did not mean, Frank had found, that stereotypes about certain animals fit the person. Soldiers and canid daemons, for example. Historically, linked. In practice, those who did best in the military had a variety of settled daemons, but their daemons settled early. They were sure, steady, strong.

Frank had expected Ceilidh to settle as a canid. Maybe a wolf, or a sleek desert jackal. She was too fierce to be any domesticated breed. As a child, he’d loved how fast she could change in a pinch; in a tussle with other children, she was impossible to pin down. She claimed it was him that let her do it; quick wit, she said. He didn’t agree, but they often didn’t. He’d asked her once why she never took the fantastic shapes so many schoolmates’ daemon’s took -- never a dragon or a unicorn or manticore; she stuck to cats and moths, birds and dogs, beasts they could find in any encyclopedia. She’d laughed at him then, said it was still him: a lack of imagination.

When she’d settled, he’d been surprised, but not as much as he might have been. In high school, she’d often been leonine; a lioness, a cougar, a lynx; powerful and solid and noble. Someone shoved him, she’d have their daemon in her teeth or pinned beneath her claws in an instant. Still, he’d thought _wolf_ when he thought of the future; a pack animal that could survive solo.

She’d settled as a cheetah; tall, slender, dignified in her stature. She had settled and he had _felt_ it, known she would never change again, and that was alright. Ceilidh had always defied his expectations, and he swore she smiled when he braced his hand between her ears the first time, feeling the sleekness of her fur.

They argued often, but rarely publicly. Where others could see them, they were unified, stolid, impenetrable. Even Maria and Cadoc had never been party to their disagreements.

Now, this man David and his painted dog daemon unconscious at their feet, they argued.

“He isn’t threat. Look at this place, Frank, and tell me one goddamn reason I should think this man capable of doing us harm.”

Frank didn’t say anything, focused on sorting through the drive to just kill Lieberman and have done with it. He wanted answers, but he was a threat. He was manipulative, they’d figured that out quick enough.

Ceilidh moved herself stubbornly between Frank and David’s prone body. “He smells like whiskey and fear, Frank. Dirty clothes and desperation. He’s hiding. He’s a ghost, same as us.”

He wrinkled his nose and stepped around her, but rather than wrap hands around that scrawny neck or anything half so cathartic as just taking out the threat, he started stripping him. He’d have duct tape down here. He and Ceilidh would do a weapon search after he bound Lieberman to the chair.

“Francis David Castle, if you don’t fucking start talking I’m going to bite your goddamn hand off.”

He shot his daemon a look, and she glared back at him. “You know what I’m doing. You always know. The fuck you wanna talk about it for?”

“Well for one, you’re thinking about the dog being tied up and neutralized the same as the man and memo: I don’t have hands.”

A curse. She sighed and butted her head against his leg, rubbing her cheek against him.

“I know you’re not an idiot, but Frank, you’re being an idiot.”

“This is war, same as always. We need answers, right? He’s got ‘em.” She made an uncertain noise, but before she can argue, he’s back to manhandling Lieberman out of his clothes. “I won’t kill him unless there’s no other option, alright? Til he proves we’ve got no choice. I’m just gonna encourage him to tell the truth.”

“Yes, historically this has always proven effective for us,” Ceilidh said dryly, moving to sit beside the dog daemon. Frank thought about asking where her uncertainty had been when they’d gotten out of the trunk of Lieberman’s shitty little car, where her moral righteousness had been when they’d attacked Lieberman and his daemon, perfectly in sync as always. He refrained, because he’s in her head too. He understands, even if he doesn’t agree, and knows that when Lieberman wakes up, she will keep his daemon in hand, whether she likes this game plan or not.

Because the war they fight is the same war that’s been inside them all their lives. The war of letting go and holding on. The war of faith and mistrust. Obedience and gut instinct. He acts fast and with certainty, measured, powerful, effective, but rarely works well with others. He could trust Ceilidh and her counsel, but often acted with his gut, whether she suggested otherwise or not.

And she might bristle and lecture in private, but in the moment, she was as fierce and as heated as he was. She suited him, sleek and noble though she might look. She couldn’t sheathe her claws and neither could he.


End file.
